


Kiss Might Kill

by mydogfoundthechainsaw



Category: Dominion (TV)
Genre: M/M, spoilers for episode 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:46:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1909761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogfoundthechainsaw/pseuds/mydogfoundthechainsaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You could kiss it better. He doesn’t know why, but that stupid phrase keeps floating around in his head as he watches Michael bleed out. He didn’t even know the angel had blood, and yet here he is, brightening the dusty Jeep with the life pouring out of him. And the blood just keeps coming.</p><p>As Alex finds his way back to Vega, he starts coming to a less exciting conclusion than that he hates Michael. Maybe just the opposite. And that maybe old superstitions, combined with a lack of a filter, can lead somewhere unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss Might Kill

 

      _You could kiss it better_. He doesn’t know why, but that stupid phrase keeps floating around in his head as he watches Michael bleed out. He didn’t even _know_ the angel had blood, and yet here he is, brightening the dusty Jeep with the life pouring out of him. And the blood just keeps _coming_. He’s tried to tie it off, apply some pressure, all that nice shit they taught him in first aid, but it’s not working. The other shitty voice in his head wonders if the blade might be poisoned. Which means everything is fucked.  
       Not that it isn’t already, anyway. Because there’s gonna be a hundred questions, just from the guards, and he’s got a feeling that Senator Whele will find the development more than a little interesting. The man might creep him out more than just a little.  
      Michael moans a little, half-falling out of the seat, looking deathly pale. It’s the first time he’s seen the angel out of sorts, and under different circumstances, it would be nice. He’s always so put-together, so alien. After twenty-five years of living with humans, he should know how to act relatively normally. Instead, he always acts like he sounds—cold, unimaginably powerful and aloof, laced with seduction. But now that veneer is cracking into pieces, and all Alex wants to do is put it back together again. He can take dealing with a cold archangel that wants to push him in all the wrong places; he can’t take a half-dead one in the backseat. Even if that’s what he’s got.  
       Unconsciously, he starts rubbing little circles onto Michael’s scalp. He only notices the contact when the angel’s breathing slows, and he leans into the contact. If he weren’t dying, it’d be adorable. Apparently angels are part cats somewhere, underneath all the power and fear. “Hey, we’re almost back home, okay?”  
       His voice sounds so false, but he keeps talking. They’ve never really _talked_ , he’s realized, and maybe that’s part of the problem. Part of the problem is him, of course—he just doesn’t want to believe that the future of humanity depends on him, Alex fucking Lannon. He’s nothing, really, and he’d always thought when the moment came, when he _could_ be something, he would want to. Yet now, when the lights were on, all he wants to do was run. And he feels like shit for it. So he tells Michael this. Blabbers to Michael, really, and he’s pretty sure the angel is going to hate him for all eternity when this is over.  
       Because once you get him started, he’s pretty hard to stop. He can’t let the quiet overwhelm them again, so he just keeps talking. And talking. Maybe it’s cause he never _gets_ to talk to anyone like this, not even Claire, maybe it’s cause he wants to explain himself, maybe it’s cause he actually _wants_ to talk to the angel. Sometimes Michael makes a choking noise that he chooses to interpret as laughing, but most of the time he just leans into Alex’s touch. And his brain has _never_ been good at keeping things on a straight line. And it’s never been good at patrolling his mouth. “…and you should smile more. People would like it. The cold bastard thing is sexy, sometimes…actually it’s always sexy, but you would get more if you looked happier. I’ve always wondered what you’d look like if you’d wear something different. Or nothing at…”  
      He drifts off as he realizes exactly what he’s saying, and then looks at Michael worryingly. Because if Michael understood any of that, he’s fucked. Beyond fucked, really. You don’t lust after cold-blooded archangels who like to whip you when you’ve done wrong. You just don’t.  
       But Michael acts the same as he has been—on the verge of death. And with that worry out of his way, he can’t help but dwell on what he just said. He wants to talk, drown out the screaming of his own thoughts, yet he’s worried about what else his traitor mouth might leak out. Yes, Michael is sexy. It's not really a question of if. It just is. In a funny sort of way, he's what Alex would call hot as hell.  If you like cold-hearted, tall, jerks who take people from their parents. It’s probably the wings. Those damnable black wings that are so touchable-looking and fucking hot when outstretched and he should stop thinking about it. It’s not like he’s thought about it before—except he has. When it’s night and he’s alone and there’s nothing left but those tattoos. And maybe it’s kept him a little warm. Just a little. But it’s just a weird, half-asleep fantasy that he _really_ shouldn’t be thinking of this. Because Michael is dying next to him and he’s having a gay crisis. (Well, not really, he’s known he’s liked both for a while. But this is different. This is _Michael_.)  
       Michael is a motherfucking archangel. He’s millions of years old, and if what he says is true, he’s been watching over him since he was a child. In his own, hardhearted way. So that makes this whole thing a little weird, right? But there’s that stupid voice that tells him everything’s been weird since the angels came so who gives a fuck, but it’s the same stupid voice that told him Michael looked good on his knees. Which he did. It really wasn’t fair, to him, at least, when he did that. Did the angel know what he had done to him? And the stupid little voice keeps talking, about how even if the angel’s somewhat of a dick, at least he’s a sexy one. And that it’s not like he _wants_ Michael, as a person, even if the angel is interesting, he wants his body. Which is totally acceptable. Maybe a good fuck would get the stick out of his ass. Maybe they’d understand each other better. He tries to drown it out with thoughts of all the shit Michael’s put him through over the years, but he keeps coming back to the tears he just saw. That some part of Michael actually cares, and maybe, he’s just trying to avoid being disappointed. By humanity. Maybe he needs someone to show him humans are worthy more than just barely concealed distain.  
      It’s not like he’s been an outstanding citizen, proving to Michael what greatness humanity is capable of. For the “Chosen One,” he’s been a bit of a shit. Growing up, he had an excuse—he wanted to be back with his father, on the road—but lately, he’s been a little selfish. And now he’s got an archangel bleeding out for him. Then he feels like an even bigger piece of shit when his mind flashes back to Claire. It’s like his brain wants him to hate himself. He’s got Claire, even if only for short, quiet moments when half of his brain is devoted to worrying about whether they’ll get caught. Which they will, eventually, but it doesn’t matter now. Everything’s fucked up between them, and he’d never stomach sleeping with another man’s woman. Even if their marriage wasn’t entirely wanted.  
       Which is why, his traitorous brain whispers, he should do something with Michael. He really needs to get a better conscious. Soon. But then he sees the gates of the city and about cries in relief. For a while now, Michael’s been quiet, which is worrying. He moves his hand from the angel’s scalp—it would be unusual, the self-preservation part of him says, and the less questions asked the better—and grabs his hand instead. Which he’s not sure is better.  
      But the guards don’t comment. The guards act rather calm, given the circumstances, interrogating him like normal before they realize Michael’s wounded, and take them off to the doctor. They really want to separate the two of them, he knows. It’s protocol. Yet he clings to the angel’s body, refusing help, because really, this is all his goddamn fault. When the doctors come, he lets go, but keeps watching, as if he knows enough about medicine to say whether or not they’re in the wrong. He doesn’t. But it calms him, a little, to see that the angel’s being fixed.  
      At some point, several of the Senators come in. Only Senator Thorn seems worried; Whele looks interested, devious. Claire and her father look on in silence, and most of him wants to drag her out, talk. But he doesn’t. He’s surprised he hasn’t been dragged out by now. Perhaps it’s because he’s clinging to Michael’s hand like lifeline.  
      But the city needs running, after all, and when Michael refuses to wake up after a period, they start to file out the door. Senator Thorn shoots him an indecipherable look, but follows Whele, hands bunched in anger. Only Claire stays, playing with something on her finger. She stares at it without speaking, so he does the same. Then, suddenly, the object catches the light, and his heart stops. He knew it wasn’t going to last forever—it was like Romeo and Juliet—but still. He thought there’d be more warning, more time to argue and experience. What can he expect, though, after running away? “Getting married, huh?”  
      Getting the words out is a trial unto itself. He regrets them as soon as he does. She had no choice, none of them do in this senseless world they were born to. But he doesn’t know what else to say. Because there’s too much. There’s I’m sorry for fucking up, I’m sorry for whatever we did, I’m sorry for leaving, I’m sorry for being just a soldier in this grand war. One of them should be I love you, but that doesn’t come. None of those words come, anyway. Instead there’s silence. Claire plays with her ring, and he clings to Michael’s hand. It’s pathetic and telling and this might be the last moments together. He should say something, about how it’s not over, how he’ll always fight for her. He really should.  
       But he doesn’t. “Everyone’s going to have rights now. Like they should. Alex. Alex, look at me.”  
      “That’s good.” It really is. If anyone could do it, it’s Claire. Perhaps she should marry, take over. If a Whele’s going to run the city, Claire better be next to them. She’s idealistic on the best of days, and that’s what the city needs.  
      “So you’re really going to do this?” Yes. And it burns him, further than the tattoos ever could. But it was hard enough when she was simply General Riesen’s daughter. Now she’s William Whele’s betrothed. Maybe he doesn’t love her enough to go through all of that, or maybe he loves her too much to put her through that. Either way, the outcome’s the same. So he looks up at her and nods and almost breaks when he sees the tears on the edges of her eyes. “Friends then, huh?”  
      She sounds so cold, so angry, a lost and beaten girl given everything but what she wants. Then she nods and smiles and walks off, slamming the door behind her. When she’s gone, he can feel the tears climbing up his throat, but then the door opens again and he forces them down. It’s Senator Thorn. She, too, looks like a woman beaten.  
      The Senator sits opposite to him and brushes Michael’s hair with an alarming amount of familiarity. She looks up after she does, eyes wide with fear, and he has to hide a smile. The angel has something, apparently. “He means a lot to you?”  
      He’s not sure if it’s a question, and even less sure of the answer. So he looks down. She laughs a little. “It’s okay. Means a lot to me too. Of course, that’s where...” She pauses, breathes in, like just a little bit of air’s going to stop her from breaking. It won’t, he wants to tell her. The only way to stop yourself from breaking is to not have anything worth breaking at all. “Claire, huh? You love her and now the Wheles are taking her away.”  
      There’s anger there. Dangerous anger. Trying to sound friendly, joking, but failing. Like she wants to do something reckless, world-changing, but can’t think of what. “And you’re going to let them. Because this world is teetering on the edge and you have to do your best to keep it steady. Even if it breaks you.”  
      She pauses again, looking for confirmation, so he gives a mumble that could pass for anything. “And if you keep it going, they’ll have something on you. And if they have something, they’ll bury you. And people like them can’t be allowed to rule.”  
      It’s the closest to insurrection he’s ever heard anyone outside of a V-1 say, and yet it breaks his heart. Because he knows what pushed her to the edge. Who, more accurately speaking, and even as a “Chosen One,” he’s still nothing. “I’m sorry.” It’s all he can choke out, and yet she smiles at him. It’s a terrifying smile, something that speaks to what happens when you take power away from those used to it. A smile of someone who’s realized how little power they actually have and is now terrified of those who actually weld it. Then she presses her lips to Michael’s forehead, brushes his hair once more, smiling as if to hide her tears, and leaves.  
      And now he’s alone, once more, with the angel, lost more than ever. Because now he’s got to tell a half-dead angel that he’s been broken up with and deal with his own fucked up situation and try to figure out what the “Chosen One” means and determine what to do about his pathetic crush. There should be an instruction manual for this situation; he thought fucked-up love triangles got destroyed with the rest of civilization. But there isn't. He has to figure it out on his own, in his own time, like everyone else. Not now. So he breathes in deeply and tries to let go of Michael’s hand. But even half-asleep, half-dead, the angel’s powerful, and he’s quite partial to that hand.  
       So he stays. Even though his stomach’s growling and his head’s screaming and his eyelids keep sliding shut. If the angel, half-dead as he is, wants someone to stay, it’s the least he’s owed. He shifts around in the chair, trying to find somewhere comfortable, and is thwarted at every turn. And it must be the exhaustion—because his brain is being a superb traitor today—but Michael looks comfortable. Not as soft or familiar or inviting as Claire, but safe. Shooting the angel one last glare, he pokes at his stomach. When there’s no reaction, he folds himself into a somewhat relaxed, protective position over the sleeping body. Then he promptly loses consciousness.  
      His hand’s asleep when his eyes flutter open. He’s sprawled across Michael in a decidedly awkward fashion, but luckily, the angel’s still asleep. Part of him wants to stay, part of him wants to run, but instead, he shifts slowly to a normal, sitting position. As he does, the angel starts laughing. “You were keeping me warm.”  
      Fuck. Now _he’s_ getting warm, blushing everywhere, hoping that the angel can’t remember anything from the drive. It would be perfect if the angel doesn’t remember anything. But he manages to look at the angel’s face and he’s got a smile on. It’s beautiful and perfect and sexier than hell, and that’s when he knows he’s fucked. “How do I look?”  
       Apparently Michael _can_ do joking. He just chooses to do so only when it will fuck with Alex the most. Like now. He’s sinking into the chair, hoping to become one with it, trying to wrench his hand away from the other man’s, but he can’t. “You remember that?”  
      “Among a couple of other things. Your chattering kept me awake for quite some time. It was only when it stopped I truly passed out. You have a very interesting way with words, Alex Lannon.”  
       He’s back to that cold, powerful, seductive voice of his. “I didn’t know that was the way to get you to behave, but if necessary…”  
       Michael’s voice drifts off, and he’s still not sure if the angel’s joking or not, but the voice in his head, the traitorous one, starts filling in the blanks. And he’s really glad angels can’t read minds, because otherwise? He’s going to hell. But not until he drags Gabriel down there with him.  
       And he’s got a thousand other things to say to Michael, about Senator Thorn and apologies and what their next moves are, but the angel’s bedridden and he’s still in shock about Michael’s jokes and there is no right move in this situation. So he smiles and does what his dad always told him to. He plants a small kiss next to the wound, light enough so the only reaction is a raised eyebrow. “To make it better,” he explains, blushing even more, and Michael smiles back. The angel pulls their hands, still intertwined, toward him, and plants a light kiss on Alex’s bruised knuckles. “Is it working yet?” And the angel shouldn’t smile because it does things to him and he smiles back and he's--they're-fucked because of everything that’s happened-because of Claire and Becca and the Chosen One and the angel war-but he can’t help but think that there’s no other way he’d rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> i have no clue what i'm doing.


End file.
